Beyond
by theheartsbeat
Summary: I survived somehow. Maybe by the grace of God or by my own animal instincts, buried inside, but somehow... I managed to keep living. I knew I didn't deserve it; to live while he rotted in the ground. He deserved life, his kids... not this. Not me forgetting him and moving on. But I did. I am. I am looking beyond. And I'll keep living.
1. Part One, Chapter One: The Raven

**Wow! First Walking Dead fanfiction! I'm really excited, because I promise: this story is completely unlike the others. **

**My story will feature a female main character, her two young children, and this story will be centered around the love she finds after the zombies have taken over the earth. Okay, I understand, groan all you want, thinking this is going to be another OC who miraculously lives and is optimistic and is beautiful and gets her way. But let me tell you: this story is not that. Not at all. **

**The main character is someone who has lost so much already. She has already contemplated suicide, almost commits it, but ultimately finds it idiotic. She sees hope for the future, and if not for her, for her children. Their time on the road is a tough one, and even once they find saftey it comes with a price. And, finally, she finds the man she's ready to live for. The love she shares with this man is innocent at first, an almost necessary partnership at first. But it grows and blossoms into something more. Will it last? Find out yourself. **

**But be warned, this is a dark story. There is little fluff, and even then, it is met with thoughts of loss. This is not meant to depress, but the character I write through is not a happy person.**

**Expect for some things that are canon to be changed and altered, like character deaths and who are present, but other than that, this is the same plot that is set in the show. **

**If you're looking for something truly different, you've found the perfect story. **

**So, grab some popcorn and a drink, maybe even some Rolos, get comfortable, because I'm taking you beyond what you expected out of this story. **

**I hope you enjoy the ride!**

* * *

Beyond

Part One: The Dark

Chapter One: The Raven

* * *

" '...and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -

Darkness there, and nothing more."

Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven

* * *

I hear his screams as I struggle to escape the covers, writhing legs pushing against the mounds of fabric that entrap me. I don't know what do once I'm free; he's still screaming, and I hear tiny footfalls pound down the hallway. My vision goes black for a second. Just one minuscule second. Then I'm back. I have a pistol in my hand, I'm aiming it at his face. The face that we've seen on the news reports on our TV: shallow, grey, accented with hungry, sickly eyes and a drooling mouth. Small fists punch away at the bedroom door, to which I look at with apologetic eyes. The punches escalate as my sobs echo into the night.

They're sick. They're hungry. They'll infect anything they bite. They'll tear you from limb from limb. They'll stuff your guts into their mouth. They'll gnaw away on your meat. They'll turn you into them.

These are all things they said as they displayed images of nameless victims of this disease, as blood splattered on their rotting flesh.

But they didn't tell me this. That he'd be one of them, one of the monsters. That he would leave us to walk this earth alone, with the undead crawling in our wake, ready to cram their fingers into our brains, their yellow teeth into our hearts. He said that we would stay put, weather the storm like we always did. He'd be here for me as we upheld our vows to always be there for one another. He said so many beautiful, empty lies. Lies that I believed.

I pull the trigger.

The recoil bursts throughout my body, and through my eyes where rivers of tears flow, I see his body crumple to the floor. His face is unrecognizable with the gaping hole that spews black blood, the dark fluid seeping into the wood of the floor. As I watch his limbs settle into deathly stillness, I let out my scream. I scream and cry and curse like I had been shot myself.

I kind of wish I had been.

Jason Clyde Riley died by my hands that night.

And that's how my story begins.

With his ending.

* * *

_For Jason. For my children. For my future._

* * *

I awake to the sound of rapping at my door.

Carefully sliding my arms from underneath Sammy's head, I place my feet on the wooden floor as silently as I can. I don't have to move the covers away; I don't sleep with blankets anymore. They feel like a weight.

I slip out of the living room quietly, careful to not make any noise. I enter the foyer, pausing only to grab the knife that I keep in my boot. I approach the door silently, even holding my breath, attempting stealth.

I've had dreams like this before. I forget how they end, but they always end up with me waking up, trying to scream past the gag I had already put on myself.

I place one hand on the door as the other clutches the hunting knife. I lean forward and peer through eye-hole on the door to find piercing black irises greeting mine.

My gasp is almost let out; but I keep it in.

A raven has made its perch on my door, and I observe it as it taps its beak on the white-painted wood.

Strange, ravens aren't common here in the south, especially this time of year.

I reach out for the door knob, meaning to scare it off, but I hesitate. I gaze through the peep-hole again, and sure enough, a dozen of the undead amble their way down the dirt road that runs a hundred feet from my house.

As I commend myself on my decisive skills, I notice about three of the decaying bodies catch notice of the raven rapping on my front door. They steer towards the house.

My heart quickens then. I know I'm safe behind a two-and-a-half-inch piece of painted wood, but what if the rest of them follow and bombard my door? What if I bang my door, chasing away the bird, but then the nine other infected notice and proceed to claw their way into the house?

I act, suddenly, my fist connecting with the door, and a solid thump! reverberating through my arm and throughout the house. I hear the caw of the raven, the subtle beat of its wings. I look through the hole. The hungry eyes of the dead follow the raven, and to my relief, their arms claw the sky as if they could pluck the bird out of the air. But the raven neatly dodges them, flying away like I wish I could. The dozen infected turn away from the house and in the opposite direction.

Before I turn away from the backs of the undead, one catches my eye. It's the tallest one of the group and I notice with a twang of sadness that I recognize him. A bright red hat with layers of dirt and grime slopes on his head, with the words 'No Hats Allowed' written on it. I choke back what feels like a laugh and a cry, but I let a tear slip down my face. I reach for the door knob, meaning to run out there and go to the familiar man, to the face of my childhood.

But I stop. I numbly place my hand back to my side, which grips the hem of my shirt.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

I step back from the door, taking deep breaths to calm myself. I brush away the tear with the sleeve of my green button-up, finally turning around.

Two dark-haired figures recede back behind the wall that separates the foyer from the living room, the light sound of tip-toes creeping back to bed.

"It's no use," I call softly. "I saw you knuckleheads."

I follow in their steps and walk back into the living room, the sight of my seven-year-old, Saul, and nine-year-old, Samantha, greeting me. They're dressed and cling to their pillows and blankets, all ready for the journey out of this place. I smile at them, they return it with toothy grins.

Saul is a tiny thing, short for his age. His eyes are a striking blue color, almost like lightning. His sandy blonde hair was recently buzzed off, much against his wishes. But I think he understands. Samantha has my black hair, and she didn't fight me when I cut it. She's lanky and tall, just like her father was when he was at that age. Her eyes are the exact color of mine; stormy grey.

"Did you sleep well?" I ask, stepping forward and checking their work on getting dressed. Saul buttoned his shirt wrong, and Samantha needs a belt for her drooping jeans.

"Yep," they chide sweetly, although sleep remains on their faces and hunching shoulders.

As I loop a belt through Sammy's pants, I tell Saul to grab a few energy bars and bottles of water for breakfast. He returns and together we have our meager meal. I start cleaning up, explaining the terms and conditions to the one keepsake I agreed to let them bring.

"If it's a toy, make sure it's noiseless. Completely silent. And if it's a photograph, you can have a sheet of plastic to cover it so it doesn't scratch. Don't worry about books. I have plenty of those." They grumble as I crack a smile. I then add, "And remember… we may never come back here..." I feel my heart sink at the thought of what I should say. "… like this. People may steal things. The house may burn down. I don't know what'll happen. So make sure it's something you can't live without."

Once I'm done, they dash up the stairs to their old rooms, the ones I gutted of sheets and blankets and hauled into the living room. I had banned them from going up there, and surprisingly, they've obeyed. As I gather up the last box of dehydrated food, I hear their footfalls pound overhead and can detect their voices.

I'm happy to get them out of here, take them somewhere more secure. Maybe even a group, but that seems like a faraway dream. We're heading southwest, where the last news reports said refugee camps thrived, especially in Atlanta. But that was more than a month ago, around the same time... he... died...

Sure, I'm taking a chance. But even here, in the backwoods of southeast Arkansas, the dead are only appearing more and more every day and show no signs of stopping. I'm going to risk our lives, yes, but I'm not going to act like a sitting duck. Rileys don't roll that way. That was Jason's motto.

At the thought of Jason, I have to swallow hard to remove the lump that forms in my throat. The ring that sits on my finger feels like a cinder block. I place the box down, trying to relax my suddenly aching muscles.

As I work the knots out of my shoulders, I notice that I haven't picked my one item. The thought hits me like a brick; so crushing and damaging. Why was I trying to suppress the thought of him anyway?

I guess I was just afraid to leave.

Without even thinking, I sprint up the stairs the same way as my kids did and walk down the dimly sunlit hallway. I pass wedding photos and pictures of Sammy and Saul's kindergarten graduation. I pass them without really looking, because I notice that Jason is in each one of them, his brown eyes glimmering, pride smile beaming. I also notice in the ones I'm in that I have my long hair. It touched the small of my back, naturally wavy and the deepest black. The color of the night sky, Jason said once. He would've been mad to know that I cut it. And not just any trim; it's exactly one inch in the back and three inches in the front.

I pause only to warn Sammy and Saul that we're leaving in a few minutes and they better make their choices quickly. After that, I head towards the last door on the left, my breathing becoming ragged as I step closer.

My hand grips the door knob, I can't help but notice that I'm shaking.

Slowly, I crack the door open.

The first thing to greet me is the smell of lilac. That was scent of the perfume that I wore frequently; the only perfume Jason liked.

But quickly after comes the smell of death. I fight the urge to throw up, cupping both hands around my mouth. I step out, forcing what little food I have in my stomach back down.

"Mommy? Are you okay?" I hear Saul call from down the hallway.

"Yes, sweetie," I assure, casting him a smile. "I'll just be a moment."

I compose myself, brushing back my bangs from my hot forehead. It's late summer, and outside, I can hear the cicadas sing. The trees by the window do not stir, it's dry as a bone out there.

Feeling courageous, I venture back into the bedroom, this time the ends of my shirt covering my nose.

I quietly examine the bare mattress, repressing many memories that fight into my brain. I amble around the room for a bit, unsure what to take. I scour the jewelry drawer only to find that I can't choose between the silver heart pendant that Jason got me for our second anniversary or my grandmother's cameo brooch. My fingers trace every ring I own, every chain of gold. I was never a big fan of jewelry, in fact, I detest receiving or wearing any. But now, as I see them glimmer and shine, I can't help but pick up every piece and admire how beautifully crafted they are, recalling the exact moment I received it.

I move on, trying not to linger. I can't take any longer.

I think about bringing the half-full bottle of lilac perfume I have left, but fight against it. What if it breaks and those infected are attracted to the smell? I solemnly set the bottle back down on the vanity.

I spot a book on the nightstand beside the bed. As I move closer, I see that it's a lengthy collection of Edgar Allen Poe's poems and short stories. I contemplate taking it, but I can't even bring myself to touch it. It's so heavily marked by Jason's presence; coffee stains that frame pages, his scent that is buried in the ink, his fingerprints immortalized in hot wing sauce on the cover. I can't bear the thought of our blood seeping in the pages, our fingernails pocking the leather binding.

But I smile at the thought of his face buried in a book, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. I recall how the corners of his bright blue eyes crinkled warmly whenever I lingered at the door, watching him become immersed in a book. He would call me over and set me in his lap, and I was welcome to read with him. We would sit like that for hours, sometimes too distracted by one another to move past one page.

Those thoughts warm my heart for a moment.

But the clock that ticks in my brain warns me that if I linger, we'll lose the light.

I suddenly knew what I knew I should take.

I go back to the vanity and throw open my jewelry drawer, pulling out the cushion case that displays my rings. There, underneath it, is a small box no bigger than my thumbnail. It's bright pink, with a tiny loop on top of it. I quickly grab it. Placing the ring case back down, I see a thin silver chain forgotten in the corner of the drawer. I pluck it from its place, wrapping my hand around both items, placing it over my chest.

The only things that sum up my whole time here, with Jason, is my wedding ring and this box.

Somehow, it fits us, me and him. Forever our time together is there, in the past, and I will never forget it. Never.

That's when I turn on my heel and leave.

No ceremonious words. No grand finale.

I press my hand against my heart and shut the door.

* * *

I shake the spray can, eyeing the pastel green canvas in front of me. Around me, birds chirp in the trees, the leaves they hide behind speckled with brown and black from the excessive summer heat. I hear Sammy humming a tune by the old elm tree, near the place we buried Jason. Saul waits in the Jeep, impatiently tapping his fingers against the dashboard.

I take a deep, deep breath, trying to clear my head. It spins a million miles per second, my brain rattling in my skull. Swallowing hard, I stop shaking the can of spray paint, trying to decide what to write.

Should it be a poem about our loss? Or words of encouragement? About the emptiness that festers in my chest, the darkness that loomed over my fate?

Why am I doing this? Leaving the familiar and abandoning comfort? Why am I even trying?

For Jason. For my children.

I bite my bottom lip as my hands move without my permission, my finger pressing down the trigger of the spray can. The black paint lands on the side of the house with a gentle hiss, and my arms move almost poetically as I write my reason, my purpose:

**For Jason. For my children. For my future.**

Stepping back, I examine my work. The ebony paint drips, reminding me of the fluid that wept from Jason's gunshot wound. I push that thought from my brain, occupying it by dropping the can to the ground and taking more calming breaths.

That's when I hear the call of the raven.

I whip around to see the dozen of the undead I saw this morning, only to my horror, about another fifteen joins them. They drool and moan as they trudge down the dirt road nearer to me, and again, I see the tall man with the dirty red hat. My eyes squint against the sun, and surely enough, they've seen me. I am their prey now.

I fight my fear and pull out the gun I had strapped to my thigh, my body finally catching up to the severity of the situation.

"Sammy! Get to the car!_ Now!_" I yell as loud as I can, and to my relief I hear her sneakers hit the gravel and the sound of the Jeep door slamming shut.

I run to the vehicle, my instinct telling me to turn to and look at the monsters, but I fight it. They aren't close enough to catch up that quickly, but I know I can't delay.

I reach the Jeep, pulling the dark grey door open, jumping in, and start it up. I'm about to close the door and drive off, until a sudden feeling stings my gut.

I hit the button to open the sunroof, and I stand to face the twenty-seven undead that are easily sixty yards away from us. I bring up my pistol and level it at the forehead of the tallest one.

"Cover your ears, Sammy," I say calmly. I hear her whimper but obey. Saul curls up next to her, pulling the hood of his coat over his head.

Tears threaten to overwhelm my eyes as I take aim at the familiar face: the dead, red vein-webbed eyes that find mine the same color as a storm, the remaining hairs that peek from underneath the hat black with strands of grey. My heart beats wildly in my chest. Time slows as I look at the monster that was once a man, a husband, a father.

I squeeze the trigger, the gunshot scaring off the raven that perched on the railing of my porch. I don't even hit it the first time, but it grazes the shoulder. Blood spews everywhere. More tears sting my eyes. The second bullet goes through its chest, more blood, more tears. He doesn't even slow down.

Finally, my thrid shot doesn't perfectly in the middle of the forehead, it's off by two inches to the right, but I accomplish my task. I watch with foggy eyes as the monster falls to his knees, blood cascading from the wound, hungry eyes still on mine as it slams into the earth.

I don't have time to think about what I did, I slide back into the seat and close the door, clenching my fists over the steering wheel. Pushing my foot on the gas pedal, I send us down the road, towards the hope of better days.

My thoughts race about the unthinkable act I just committed, but the unfathomable vision of my children torn apart by that monster makes my stomach clench with disgust. I peer into the rear view mirror at my children, seeing that they are just as shaken up as me. I calm them quickly, telling them we're finally heading towards a better place. They nod their heads innocently, but not even that can bring a smile to my face.

I look past them to the speck of black that lays a ways behind us, the horde of moving dead bodies ambling in our wake. Further behind them, a blot laid in the road, the second thing I've killed since this all started.

He won't be the last.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

* * *

**All right! So, what did you think of the first chapter? Hate it? Love it? Let me know in a review! **


	2. Part One, Chapter Two: Clocks

Beyond

Part One: The Dark

Chapter Two: Clocks

* * *

_'Confusion never stops,_

_Closing walls and ticking clocks..._

_Am I a part of the cure?_

_Or am I part of the disease?'_

Clocks by Coldplay

* * *

_THE CITY IS LOST_

_TURN BACK_

_RUN_

* * *

Repetition isn't so bad.

It gives you sense of regulation, of safety. After everything is taken away from you in a matter of moments, the moments that follow after are expected to be uncounted and hazy, but I guess I'm lucky. I keep time with my beating heart, with each pulse of the sun. I can't hold a watch long enough to be familiar with organized time, so I rely on the days that pass. I rely on times I grow hungry or when Saul begs me to pull over for him to use the bathroom. Even though our position on the globe changes in small increments, I know how the sun will rise, though I don't know when. I feel oddly primitive, only without the loincloths and adding the walking dead.

I thought traveling from Norman, Arkansas to Atlanta would take a maximum of two days, but with major roads and interstates out of the question, I navigate through dirt roads and minor highways with little map knowledge I have. Its been three weeks since our departure.

But repetition keeps me sane whenever I make a wrong turn or when we need supplies. I'm the clock now, and I will mark each second, each passing beat of our hearts.

And this is how my day is begins.

With the ending.

It's late at night. The thrum of the engine almost lulls me to sleep a few times, but I manage to stay awake until I pull into the garage attached to an abandoned house or a forgotten barn. I pull the door shut as quietly as I can, then crawl into the backseat with my children and catch a few hours sleep.

I wake up before dawn, comfortably nestled in between Sammy and Saul, their tiny arms laced around my waist. I sit there, content for a while, reflecting back in the silence.

After urging them awake, we eat in the quiet and as soon as I'm finished, open the doors to the dark world again. I let them eat granola bars and sip on little boxes of juice as I drive the Jeep down the empty road, wishing I had more to fill them up. But I know they won't complain.

Oddly enough, even on the back roads, only few of the undead were found in our way, most of them just wandering in the open fields. We ran into trouble only once before we crossed into Georgia. Outside of the Arkansas-Mississippi state line, a pretty big group crossed half a mile in front of us, and though none noticed Sammy's whimpering, put me enough on edge that I was shaking for the rest of the day, eyes darting constantly.

The only thing the kids whined about was the silence. They begged me to play music; I always replied that I was afraid to. It was probably an irrational fear, considering that the sound of the engine made plenty of noise, but something in the back of brain told me not to do it. I didn't have silence anymore, no peaceful moments.

I only trust the noise of a phantom clock ticking.

* * *

Once inside Georgia, I feel safe for some reason. We risk staying in a house for a few days, which pass by without accident. We restock and catch up on sleep. The water isn't working, but there are enough wet wipes to get us clean.

One morning as the kids were still sleeping, burrowed in a mound of sheets and towels, I pore over the state map, trying to find the nearest gas station. The Jeep was running low on gas, and the three jugs I'd filled up a few days ago were already gone. My eyes lock onto a small gas station that was only eight miles down the road. I hastily decide to go then. I wake up the kids and tell them to stay here; lock the doors, one of them staying up to watch. Saul bravely volunteers.

I start the car and pull out of the driveway, backing up onto the quiet street. I travel in silence for a few miles, when I decided to turn on the radio. I set it on scan to just pacify my fear that I was missing some important broadcasting, only to find they were baseless. Static is not a tune I wanted to hear. Surprisingly, it's worse than rap music. With an eye roll, I pop in a mixed CD, varying between classical music and heavy metal. It was soothing to listen to music, to hear someone's voices but my own. My kids didn't talk much anymore, and, when they did, it was to tell me calm down.

As The Doors croon softly from the speakers, I feel even better. But my thoughts linger on other things; my kids, Jason, the undead that crave the taste of my brain, and the dreams that plague it.

My nightmares have been worsening over the last few weeks. I thought they were bad in the first place, but they progressively and steadily have become more horrifying. Bloody. Deranged. I dream my death in many ways; decapitation, starvation, burned by brilliant flames. The worst one was infection. Yellow pus and dark blood oozed from gaping wounds, and I couldn't move. The marrow of my bones filled with black and writhing maggots, and I just laid there as I waited for death.

I also have had vivid dreams that I stood atop of a high wall, and below, the infected. They approached and I shot them in the head, countless times _bang! bang! bang!_ echoed in my own. Suddenly, I would look down and see the wall I stood on were rotting bodies, bodies of the people I loved. Jason, Sammy, Saul, my father, my Uncle Neil, people from my church, old school teachers, childhood crushes, the old woman from the food market who sold cranberry oat bread, countless others. Their vacant eyes on me, blaming and unforgiving. Brain matter, scattered, golden bullets glimmering in their foreheads, mangled bodies, placed with perfect precision, the design of a killer. A wall of bones.

I violently shake my head, refusing to let the thoughts of my twisted dreams to ruin my for once serene mood.

Quickly referring to the map, I turn right at an intersection, two of the undead greeting me. I stay calm as I push on the gas pedal and graze both of them, one of them receiving broken legs. Its fingernails claw at the asphalt. The other limps after the Jeep.

Two miles down the road, I spot the gas station, pulling in the small parking lot. I grab the three gas cans from the back, a flashlight, and an extra clip of bullets. I check the hunting knife in my boot, examining the silver blade in the sunlight. I see my slightly distorted reflection in it. I can't tell if the reason I look so gaunt and pale is because of the blade, or if I really looked that way. I shrug. Looks weren't important anymore.

I set the gas cans by the pump, pocketing my extra clip and flashlight before filling up. I'm halfway through filling up the second vessel when I hear it.

Moaning.

I don't immediately investigate, I check my surroundings, to see everything's desolate. I hear it again; it's coming from within the shack of a store. I can't see into it, no light can get past the wall of black behind the door. I keep an eye on it as I fill the rest of the gas cans, my hands itching to pull out my gun. I resist successfully, and I place the cans brimming with petrol back into the Jeep.

Afterwards, I approach the dark building with my gun in my left hand and the flashlight in my right, avoiding the trash that littered the lot. The breeze carries the smell of hay and gas, two scents I wasn't sure really complimented one another. I pause at the front of the station. The door was open, well... torn off the hinges and thrown thirty feet from the frame, so I continued in, shining my light into the darkness.

I walk through, eyeing the turned-over display cases, gum packages and tobacco cans strewn over the floor. There is a small refrigerator to my left, silent as I church mouse, and I took a mental note to look at it later. My eyes wander all over the place, looking for the source of the moans from earlier. I notice that it's quiet now.

Then, I hear it again.

It's dry and shallow like someone is suffering a really bad head cold. It sounds like they were spewing phlegm, and now they were hissing.

I walk up to the counter, and with a deep breath, peer over it.

There, it's lower half and torso held down by a small lottery machine, lies one of the infected, his head twisting from side to side, an action I was sure that is caused by my smell. He looks awful, his dry, papery skin hanging loose on body like baggy clothes, like he had all water extracted from him. His sickly, yellow eyes bulge from his skull, which now find me. He struggles harder now, trying to escape so he can attack me, but even his arms are held down by the weight of the machine.

I bite my lip as I thought about what I should do. I bowed my head at my silent realization.

In a flash, I hop over the counter and pull the six-inch hunting knife from my boot, twisting the handle in my grip. I kneel beside the parched, writhing body and gave it a gentle smile. I don't do this at the thought of killing it for my sake, it was the possible chance that maybe he would've wanted this, to not be stuck underneath this weight forever, moaning for help.

I lower the knife, placing the tip to the center of his forehead. He squirms more ferociously now, either because of my closeness or he knew his life was coming to an end. I suck in my breath and plunge deep, twisting the knife. But I don't shed a tear. I'm all dried up. When a pulled out my knife, a cloud of dust poofs out of the hole in his head, and I hold my nose to make sure I don't inhale it.

I stood and nod my goodbye to the poor fella, hopping back over the counter. I grab the remaining water bottles from the fridge and a pack of cinnamon gum, opening it up and sticking a piece in my mouth before leaving the building.

Outside, I spot the same monster from the intersection in the parking lot, closer to the Jeep than I was. I immediately book it, sprinting as fast as I could and climbing into the Jeep. The infected saw me, shuffling towards me with rolling ankles and arms reaching. I throw my scavenged items into the passenger seat and jam my keys into the ignition, starting it. But it doesn't not come to life. A bright red light in the shape of a gas pump shines on the dashboard.

"Shit!"

I'm such an idiot. Why didn't I fill up the car first?

The monster was already at the Jeep, banging hard on the window. Not enough to make the glass break... currently.

I glance around, looking for what could get me out of this mess. I had my gun, but it was too loud. What if other infected heard it? I again pull out my hunting blade, a few remaining specks of dust on it. I sigh as I slid into the passenger seat and open the other door, slipping out and shutting it. I ran back to the gas station, turning back once to see if the monster notices. It does.

I huff it into the building, not pausing as I sit on the counter and twist around, getting behind it. The infected meanders into the station, its eyes on me. I notice that the right eye-ball was hanging out of its skull, attached by a thin string of sinew. It finally got to the counter, where the dull creature walked right into it, its remaining arm clawing at me.

I blow my bangs out of my face. I was okay.

I position the point of my knife away at me, readying for my attack. I surge forward, gripping the undead's wrist and pinning it to the top of the counter. It screeches, but I cut it off as I bury my knife into its brain. I pull the blade back, panting at the rush of adrenaline.

I don't think I was designed to handle this.

I sigh and whisper, "Suck it up, I guess."

* * *

Arriving back at home, I'm met with Saul and Sammy huddling underneath the nest of cloth that was their bed, claiming that an infected hovered near the back door for some time, and they've been hiding for half an hour until I came back. I investigate; can't find anything. They are relieved. I feel bad about not telling them that an infected was there, but it was folded onto the ground, a hole oozing with blood could be seen on either temple.

I feel guilty, but safer when we pack up and leave five minutes later.

Maybe it's foolish of me. They clearly have a great shot, whatever their weapon was. It's obviously silent, the kids hadn't said anything about a gunshot or loud noise. Maybe I should wait until they come back around and ask them if we could become a group. But that's crazy. I don't know who or what they are. They could be psychotic murderers for all I know. I'm not risking that.

We stop in the middle of the night in another garage, but as we pull in, I see something that puts me on edge. As soon as I kill the engine, I jump out and slam the door that connects the garage to what looks like a kitchen, grabbing the spool of nylon thread that lies on a work table. I wrap a good length of it around the door knob and a jutting piece of wood from the wall, securing it. Afterwards, I close the garage door, casting a weary eye to the group of infected down the road. They don't notice the noise of the garage door closing past the sound of their own feeding.

Saul and Sammy sleep well, snuggled up with one another, leaving me to my restlessness self, curling up by the door. The image of the bodies sitting around the dining room table flash underneath my eyelids each time I blink, and I can't even summon an ounce of sleep. I make the conclusion that if I don't sate my curiosity, we would end up in a ditch because of my drifting.

I open the door of the Jeep, trying my best being absolutely silent. I would hate to wake my kids up, to take them away from the few hours they get to dream, to be away from this hell of a world. I wonder if their father is present in their dreams, because I certainly know he's in mine.

I creep up the door that connects to the kitchen, and not bothering to untie the cord binding it shut, I fish the leather-hilted knife from my boot and cut the nylon thread. The door creaks open, which oddly conjures up memories of a Haunted House the school Sammy went to sponsored a few years ago. Jason and I went with high expectations, but toilet paper ghosts and wailing organ music from a scratchy CD was the entirety of the attraction. With that biting memory gnawing on my brain, I whisk through the door and leave a crack in it, if I need to get out quickly.

The rubber soles of my boots squeak from the traction they have with the linoleum floor of the kitchen, and a lot concentrating, I successfully cross the floor with little noise. The dining room was open to the kitchen, and I can see the stains of dropped casseroles and spilled iced tea on the gray carpet.

The dining table is composed of sturdy oak, the legs of it carved with detailed designs. I wonder if it was a family heirloom. I focus on the small tree wrought in the wood, almost scared to look at the still bodies that sat in the matching high-backed chairs.

I approach the family, resting a hand on the surface of the table. Plates of food were set in front of each body; and the rotted remains of fruit swamp the bowl in the middle of table, the tiny carcasses of flies dotting the brown sludge. I could hardly identify the petrified slices of bread that lied on the ivory plates, what looks like pork chops and string beans growing mold the color of emeralds.

All of the bodies share similar traits other than being dead; dark hair, narrow eyes, and small builds. They were possibly Asian, or their darker skin was caused by the deterioration of their flesh.

There are three small bodies. Children, with the oldest one looking around ten. Two bigger bodies sit on opposite sides of the table, and I like to think the safety of the other crossed their minds before they died. With more examination, I lean over the larger framed of the group, seeing a gash on the back of its neck. Flaking remains of brown blood gather around the collar of the once pure white shirt.

I let my mind connect the dots, my eyes wandering, trying to fully understand. Click! went the gears in my head, as I peer over to the wall in front of me and find the picture, the pane of glass protecting it cracked and broken. There, in that frozen moment, there were six smiling faces, posing casually on a cliff overlooking the sea.

I take a step closer, my eyebrows raising. From the picture, I saw that one person was missing; a teenage boy. In the picture, he looks sixteen, with lively eyes and lovely smile. He's the one who must've done this to his family. I wonder if they'd turned or if he... put them out of their misery.

I turn away, disgusted. Who would do this to their family? Was the only way out really by slashing their spinal cord? That's just... fucked up.

Taking a deep breath, I clear my mind. Maybe he had to do it. Maybe... they were attacked while he was away. And he... found them, found... death.

I close my eyes as I feel sympathy for the poor kid pulse through my heart. The feeling felt painful, like thick mud running in my veins. Tiny rocks and bugs were in it, scratching the insides of my tubes, ravaging and damaging.

Does this feel like turning? When you're bit and their venom flows through you? Or when you die of a heart attack in your sleep and you're gasping for breath and your wife doesn't hear you, she's lying right there, why can't she hear? What is this pain? Will I make it? Will I? Will I?

A pathetic excuse of a cry breaches my lips, and I quickly clamp my hands over my mouth. I have no more tears to give, I'm as dry as a bone, giving only my silent sobs to the dead.

I can't feel anything as my legs move for me, guiding me through the house and my hands ripping up sheets and blankets without my permission. I gather every piece of cloth I can find, I see and snatch up a roll of duct tape. I throw them all in the kitchen, first lying down the sheets. I stride back to dining room and cut the ropes that bind the bodies to the table, meaning to give them a proper burial, to put these poor people to rest.

But then I stop.

What was I doing taking their bodies from a familiar place? Had their loved one put them this way? And who was I, a stranger, dragging their bodies around from their true resting place?

I grew jealous all of the sudden, longing to be back home, to be at rest in a familiar place with my kids and husband. I could be seated on the couch with an arm around Jason and the kids sitting beside us, no longer fearing when or where the dead would take their lives. We would sit like that for eternity, as a family.

Again, I turn away. I feel the air rush by me as I topple into the wall, my side shooting up with dull pain.

_Is this my way of coping? Regretting the choices I've made?_

I snort at my stupidity. _What is there to regret?_

_Everything._

_No. I refuse to believe that._

_But you believed Jason._

_I had to._

_No. You didn't._

_I don't remember there being much a choice._

_Wouldn't it be easier, though? To end this now? To be rid of all this worry, all this pain?_

_It would be easier. But it would be giving up._

_Haven't you lost so much already?_

_Yes._

_You will lose much more._

_...I know._

_So, end it. Grab your kids, tie them up, stab their brains so they won't come back. It won't be hard._

_Yes, it will be. Very hard. Very painful._

It was almost like an sigh came from the other voice._ You have to understand, Am-_

_No. Don't call me that. That's not my name anymore._

_Then what is your name?_

I paused, surveying the dark room that was only lit by my flashlight. On the wall to my left, there was a framed picture. It was another portrait of the family, a small label set off to the side. I stood from my place on the floor and approached, my flashlight cutting through the darkness.

In the family portrait, the left-most person was who I speculated was the father. He wasn't very tall, with gray hair before his time. The next was the mother, almost the height of her husband. Next was the one who was missing from the table; recognizable by his boyish smile and lively eyes. The rest were the children who were presently dead.

The label simply said, 'The Rhee Family, 2006. Left to right: Khaos, Emily, Glenn, May, Molly, and Henry.

Names are so weird. What is in a name? Nothing that can protect you, like a gun. Nothing that can give you nourishment, like food or water. Nothing to give you hope... and there's none of that anymore.

You don't work for name. You're born and your adoring and loving parents just... hand it to you. Maybe you get something meaningful, like your grandfather's name. Or maybe your parent's have one picked out from Star Trek or Friends.

But I don't have one. This new world stripped me of my old name; the one filled with love and care. And now I have to work for my new name.

_I don't know my name._

_Choose how your name soon. Or death will choose for you. It's called 'Maggot-Chum'._

_Maybe I don't want to know my name._

_No. You don't. That's why you're afraid._

* * *

I know we're nearing Atlanta as soon as I see the flood of cars that swarm the opposite lane of traffic. The road I drive on is completely clear, like a runway for a model. All that's missing is tumbleweeds to breeze right in front of me.

My hands are shaking as we near the skyscrapers and concrete buildings. The sun beats down and them and reflects light in all the windows, making the structures look like Christmas trees. Despite the merry sight, I shake and worry because I'm afraid we'll stumble into something terrible. I pull over once or twice to throw up.

Saul is acting up today, he's irritated. He throws mild tantrums to which I reply with a harsh talking-to. Do I feel like a survivalist? Sure. But a mother? Not much.

It feels odd being with my kids every hour of the day, like I've been thrown out of balance. I've found my peace with keeping track of time and patience, but with my kids... I don't know them anymore. We haven't had the time to really talk since we've left the house, and I begin to fear that by the time we've found a safe place, I won't know anything about them. I try to find things to say; but what do you talk about after the world has ended? Politics? Religion in school? The situation in the Middle East? None of them exist anymore. Only me.

I mull over these thoughts and as I am pulled from my mind, the Jeep strikes down one of the infected, it's blood showering down on the windshield. Sammy gasps. Saul yelps.

I stop and gulp, trying to work past the hard lump in my throat. I turn, facing them, and give a nervous, shaky smile.

"It's okay," I affirm, before turning back and turning on the windshield wipers.

Forty undead faces greet our's.

I stomp on the gas pedal, plowing through the bodies as more liquid varying between shades of red, black, and brown splatter into my view, a loud scream clawing up my throat. I keep it down.

Pressing the gas harder now, we're flying, going eighty-eight miles per hour, grazing by more of the undead. Before I know it, we're breezing past gray buildings and traveling further into the city.

I slow the Jeep to a crawl, glancing around for any sign of life. There is none.

Unbuckling my seat belt, I crack open my door, glancing behind us. The road behind us was a straight stretch out of the city, and far away, the herd we drove through amble aimlessly, the few stragglers that laid between us were too busy chasing a plastic bag in the wind. I unstrap the gun from the holster that's on my thigh, and take aim at the nearest ones, just in case. Without looking, my hand feels the seat of the passenger side until I find the binoculars.

"I'll be gone for just a second. You'll see me. Don't worry," I tell the kids, keeping my sights on the infected that were still distracted.

"Mommy," I hear Saul call.

I don't look away, but I answer back, "Yes, baby?"

"I'm scared."

A pain clenches my heart, and another nervous smile washes across my face. "You shouldn't be, baby. I'm right here. And Sammy'll look after you."

He's silent, and I claw my eyes away from my prey to look at his tear-stained eyes that pierce mine, even in the shadowed car. I cock my head to the side and push the bangs from my face.

"I'm looking for people that'll help us. So we don't have to run anymore. Wouldn't that be nice? I bet they'll have kids your age to play with. Kids with toys and coloring books. Maybe even ice cream, or a working toilet," I continue. Even though I'm saying this to my kids, I feel like I'm giving myself a pep talk. It feels shallow.

The stragglers still fail to see me. I should go now.

"Okay," Saul whispers.

"Be brave, Saul. Sammy, watch him. Scream if you need me."

With that, I slip out of the Jeep and quietly shut the door. I run down the road the car is pointed in, where I see guard railing. An intersection branched off to the left and the right, so I check both ways to see they're clear. As I race up to the guard rails, I pause to look at the view it overlooks, the skyscrapers almost blinding in the afternoon sun, abandoned cars filling the streets I could see, what looks like a lake off to the right, in the shadow of a tall building.

I stand breathless at the sight. It could've passed for beautiful if there weren't the remains of charred buses and bodies piled in random places, but I remember I'm not here for sight-seeing.

Pushing the binoculars to my face, the gun still clenched my left hand, I trail over roads for signs of life, my ears listening for anything.

But all I see is emptiness, and I hear nothing.

I exhale, bringing the binoculars down. I silently wished things would just work out, but I'm sure I'm not the only one. Why couldn't I find a group? Somewhere secure? God damn it all.

Turning on my heel, meaning to drive further into the city and look for more signs of refugee camps, a flash of brilliant white catches my eye.

I gaze back, finding it with ease. It was a banner, strewn between two windows on a building at the base of the hill this level of the city was built on. Red writing was painted on it, and as hard as I strained my eyes, I couldn't see what it said. Why hadn't I seen it before?

Eager to see if they were directions to a camp or to indicate that building had supplies, I usher the binoculars to my eyes.

My heart drops into my stomach.

This is all it read:

**THE CITY IS LOST**

**TURN BACK**

**RUN**

I do turn back, I do run, and my body falls to pavement almost immediately. Oh yeah, you have to move your legs to run.

After I struggle up, I launch myself forward in a sprint. I clear the distance to to the car quickly, but the infected only yards away charge towards it too. As I start the Jeep and kick it into drive, five of those rotting bodies pound at my rear window, one sharp crack running through it. I push on the gas before they have a chance to break through.

Tears sting my eyes as I drive, my nails digging into the steering wheel. I thought Atlanta would be safe. I thought we could finally stop running.

An urge pulls at my mind. To just stop the car and let the monsters take it. Let them break the glass and tear through the metal and eat us. It would be so simple. It required no effort from me. No stakes to be raised and risked.

"No," I said underneath my breath, pushing the pedal on the gas lower. I spun around before we hit the guard rail, facing the undead.

The city was a blur as we sped back the way we came, more blood raining down on us. I narrowed my eyes against the onslaught of the dead, and I felt a click in the back of my brain.

If no one else made it, of all of the soldiers armed to the teeth, of all the doomsday preppers, we can't either.

And the clicking didn't stop.

I only trust the noise of a phantom clock ticking.

* * *

**Hello, lovelies! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter as much I had writing it. Did you like my Glenn reference? Do you love my OC's steady dive into insanity? It's really fun to write, in a messed-up way...**

**Anyway, review, favorite, follow, whatever you deem fit. **

**Love you bunches! **


	3. Part One, Chapter Three: Promises

Beyond

Part One: The Dark

Chapter Three: Promises

* * *

_"The problem with promises is that once you've made one, it's bound to be broken."_

* * *

My eyes slowly open, the edges of what I can see blurry and hazy. It's hot, sweat rolling down my spine, perspiration flowing from my hairline. That's why I can't see well; the liquid runs over my eyes, scattering my vision of the porous ceiling tiles and the bright yellow walls.

I groan as I sit up, the blood matted in my hair sticking to the linoleum floor, damp with my sweat. My bones ache and bruises spot my pasty skin, crimson fluid spilling from a split in my lip, my hair is sopping wet and the liquid soaking it dark red. My clothes were simple, consisting only of jeans and white t-shirt, both tattered and dirty. Various stains splotch them from various elements: coffee, urine, more Muncher blood, Sammy's puke, grape-flavored cough medicine, feces, and some unidentified. I don't know when I gained them, and I don't care to guess where they came from.

"Sammy? Saul?"

_Clink. Clink._

With a lot of effort, I find my footing and stand up, realizing one of my boots are missing. I curse underneath my breath. With alot of of wincing and cussing, I stumble forward a few steps, blinking away sleep and sweat from my eyes. I look around and see washers and dryers, machines that I've almost forgotten about.

_Oh, yeah. There was once a time you washed your clothes, instead of a constant cycle of replacing them._

I sigh and brush away the lingering memory of simplicity and comfort, continuing to stumble my way through the laundromat.

_Where are my kids? How did I get here? _I think, pausing to stare at my reflection in the glass of one of the archaic appliances. My hair sticks up, the viscosity of the blood in it so thick, it was like hair gel. The blood causes the sweat that runs from my hair to be stained dark brown, rivers of sweat-blood streaming to my jaw. I'm horrified at how I look, wondering who I battled to earn the fresh scratches, of who I had to kill to live this long.

A sound startles me from my pondering; it's the sound of laughter.

_Sammy. Saul._

I turn away from my reflection, heading towards the entrance where I think I heard the particular noise. Near the entrance of the building, there is a door to my right, which is slightly ajar. Scarlet stains streaked the floor, giving sign that something has been drug over them.

_Probably me,_ I observe as I approach the metal door. I move to pull it open, then I realize I don't have a weapon. I cuss mentally as I search my holster and pocket to find I'm completely disarmed. I even check my boot where I usually keep my hunting knife, to remember that boot is missing.

_Clink. Clink._

I reason that my children wouldn't be laughing if a Muncher was in there, and pull the door handle. The door is heavy, I wrap both my hands around the handle and pull.

Laughter catches my ear again and I'm met by an odd sight: Sammy sits on a folding table, strings with tiny labels stapled to them hanging from her mouth, while Saul is shirtless, white and pink frosting covering him, Munchers are piling up against the walls, and underneath the window on the far wall, shadows fall on an arm-less Muncher that is harnessed to the door knob of the supply closet by long chains.

_Clink. Clink._

"Wha... What's goin' on?" I stutter, a sudden wave of pain shooting up the back of my neck. I grumble in pain and lean against the door frame.

Sammy parts her lips and out falls six teabags, the spit that streams down her chin colored light brown. Saul only pauses, his eyes wide on me. Beside him, I see a platter with remains of a cake, frosty roses sloping off the dried and flaky icing. With a raised eyebrow, I examine the Munchers, ordinary civilians with bite marks ravaging their flesh, bright and cheery birthday hats on their rotting heads.

"Seriously, guys... what happened?"

* * *

I should have known it was too good to be true; trusting the out-dated information about the refugee camps on the radio. I wonder if they were being eaten by then, or if they lasted for a while.

I realize it was pointless to wonder. To reminisce. To remember simpler days.

As soon as I start to feel my mind being pulled back to a mulling, trance-like state, I angrily dig my nails into my thigh, the sensation biting and as I thought, brings me to the surface of my subconsciousness.

I plow down another member of the undead, his shrieks fading off behind me and I don't care. Who cared if they were people once? There were just monsters, brainless, in the form of familiar shapes; in the shapes of parents, teachers, children, sisters, nephews, wives... husbands.

The tears sting my eyes and I refuse to let them fall. I'm sick of crying, sick to death of it. It makes me look weak, like I couldn't express myself other than ridding myself of tears. I'm done with crying.

My kids sit quietly in the back, but I can't bring myself to look at them. I'm frightened to see their disappointed faces, their damp eyes. I bet they're worried about their mother; who's slowly falling into insanity. I can't say I blame them.

"Mommy?" I hear Sammy whisper lightly, and it slightly startles me to hear her voice.

"Yes, honey?"

"I'm gonna be sick."

I violently steer the Jeep to the side of the road, unbuckling and opening my door before I even really stop the vehicle. I throw the door on her side open, scooping her up in my arms, carrying her few feet to the edge of the road. But it's too late; the contents of her stomach seep into my shirt, her harsh coughing and gagging echoing down the empty highway. I manage to get her to our destination, and she busies herself throwing up.

Like any other human being, I wasn't overly fond of puke. I unbuttoned my flannel top and throw it to the ground a few feet away from me. Anything to get the acidic stench of it away.

Sammy's still throwing up as I begin to look around at the abandoned cars and over-turned big trucks. The coast is clear, no Munchers are in sight.

Munchers. That what I heard Saul call them once. It seems appropriate, given that they do munch away at you, if you get too close. It wasn't such a bad thing to give them a name that was cautionary and off-putting like that. A warning to my kids, to remind them of the consequences.

There I go again. Lost in my thoughts.

I notice that Sammy's stopped, her form leaning against the rear of a minivan. I walk over to her, her tiny frame sliding into my arms. I brush back her short black hair, acknowledging how badly it needed to be washed.

"Are you okay?" I whisper into her scalp, trying to ignore the stink of her puke.

"Okay," she manages to squeak out of her raw throat.

That's when the earth began to rumble.

I still have Sammy in my arms as I glance down the highway that points straight north, the direction we came from. There, on the horizon, the figures of two hefty-looking armored trucks, zig-zagging between the lanes, both looking out of control. I raise an eyebrow, wondering what the hell was going on. Both trucks are easily going a hundred miles per hour, the growl of their engines audible from here.

Then it hits me: people.

Actual people driving actual vehicles. Someone other than me and my children. Someone other than Munchers.

We were safe.

I almost let go of my childish giggle, before encouraging Sammy back the Jeep. Saul is standing up in his seat, looking through the back window to see the approaching vehicles. I'm grinning like an idiot as I usher him out of the Jeep and towards the end of it, my eager hands pulling the latch to the trunk and pulling out our backpacks and duffel bags. I turn back to see they're still coming, a bulky white truck in front and an army-styled Jeep following behind. The roar of their engines makes me want to laugh and dance, but of course, I don't. Who would want to help a dancing lunatic at the end of the world?

I gather our bags in a pile at the edge of the road, holding Sammy's hand, who is looking pale, but smiles at the glimmer of hope the vehicles provide. Saul clings to my pants, curiosity shimmering in his bright blue eyes.

The truck and Jeep are about half a mile from us now. Their speed only seems to increase, but I'm not worried. They'll stop. They have to.

Coming closer, I see a hand dart from the passenger side window of the white truck, a whole arm coming out, waving. I smirk and wave back.

Suddenly, the Jeep revs up its speed, and to my horror, rams itself into the side of the other vehicle, causing it to swerve into the lane we stood in. I release a gasp and clutch my children's hands.

What the hell was going on?

The truck sped faster now, undeterred by the hit. The arm that stuck out of the window waved faster, then it hit me: Get out of the way.

I don't have time to pick up our bags before my arms clench around both of my children and throw ourselves into the ditch, the sound of tires running over our supplies and water bottles exploding from the weight echoing in my ears. As we land in the tall grass, the terrible noise of metal crashing into metal pierces the air, and I instinctively clasp my hands over Sammy's ears. It was loud and I knew the Jeep couldn't survive that.

Finding my footing, I peer up onto the road to see the truck has stopped, the whole left side of it dented with gray paint streaking the white exterior, whoever was driving trying to start it back up again. The army Jeep is only yards away down the road, slowing down as they approach. The doors of the Jeep opens and six huge men spill from the vehicle, seven more coming from the canvas-covered back. The all carry assault rifles, pistols strapped to their legs, knife hilts peeking from their boots. Some of them wear heavy-looking vests, weighed down by bullets, I'm sure. But they all look dangerous, militant and ultimately; menacing.

I hardly move a muscle, I dare not breathe.

"Alright, ya lot! Come on out, hands up! One fuckin' wrong move and... I think you know what'll happen!"

Saul whimpers behind me; I silently place my hand over his mouth. Sammy lies by my feet in a ball, hands cupped over her ears. I'm frightened that she knows what's coming.

The doors of the white truck slowly open, only four men stumbling out. They're all underfed and their clothes worn, armed pretty well, but ultimately; weak. Their bony hands are raised, but guns still rest in their holsters.

One of the huge, heavily-armed men step forward, rifle aiming at them. I cringe at the sight of a man pointing a gun at another human. It's not right. Especially now.

"Quite a chase ya put up. Could've saved yer transport, ya know?" The man's beady eyes narrow. He's not tall, but he's thick and muscled. The wife beater shirt and green cargo pants he wears are clean and neat. He's tanned but naturally dark, probably have some African American heritage, and his skin glistens with sweat, but otherwise sparkling clean. Everything is so... well-kept. It startles me to something so pristine. "All we wanted was some supplies, and ya'll look like pleasant men, so how 'bout it? Care if we make a lil' trade?"

The four men exchange looks before one of the tallest in the group speaks up.

"What we will we get in return?"

The huge guy grins. "Yer lives, o' course!"

This sets the four men on edge, their hands twitching downwards, eyes on their weapons. All thirteen of the army-looking men raise their guns as a warning, bullets sliding into chambers.

"Oh, c'mon now. No need fo' dat. Give us some supplies and we'll let ya all go. How's dat sound? Then we'll part ways, ne'er botha ya again."

I mentally shake my head in repulse. What did they need their supplies for? Armed to the teeth, clean, well-fed. Compared to these guys, they were just fine. They didn't need to take from these innocent people.

I landed a hand on my gun, thinking it over. Could I take these guys on?

My grasp fell from the trigger of my weapon. I couldn't. It'd be suicide to take these guys on.

"Ya promise?" One of the four men say, sounding feeble and shaken.

The huge guys snorts, giving a small laugh. "Promise."

"Okay," I hear one of the men say. He turns back, arms still raised, but he does something I didn't see coming. His eyes lock onto mine, although I'm hidden. He could've passed for handsome once, but thick scars run down his face and silver hairs that have arrived far ahead of his time course through his dark locks. He narrows his dark eyes suddenly, his jaw locking.

"_Run,_" he mouths.

My eyes widen, and quickly, I creep back from my hiding spot in the grass, pulling my kids with me. Dense woods lay behind us, brush so thick I doubt anyone would see us. I keep my eyes on the road though, the man now turned away and moving towards the white truck.

I choke back the emotion of my rage and anger causes, keeping a firm hold over my children's wrists. I clutch them so hard I know there'll be bruises. Sammy lets the tears slip from her eyes to her hot face as she continues to burrow her fingers into her ears, refusing to let any sound in. Saul, small body stiff with shock, is out of step with us, but I keep his short legs moving, trying to catch up. I stare ahead into the dark forest, knowing I may not come back out, knowing it wouldn't be easy, but knowing for sure if I didn't run, I'd be dead.

_How long will I have to keep running?, _I ask myself before the sound of gunfire engulfs the thought completely.

* * *

We're out of the forest by morning, the tiles of the houses laying the view in front of us blazing red in the sun. I exhale and for a final time, give a reassuring squeeze to my children's wrists.

"Just a bit more," I whispered, beginning our trek down the grassy hill to the neighborhood below.

We settle into a house on the outskirts of the small collection of homes, only three Munchers hunkering down in there. I easily dispose of them. I search the house for medicine for Sammy to ward off the sickness, which has only worsened during the night. Her fever has spiked and stayed in the 100s, she coughs now, phylum spewing everywhere, and she pukes up clear fluids now that all the food in her stomach is gone.

I can't find any fever medicine, but I manage to find grape-flavored cough syrup. I don't know how much it'll help, if any.

I stride into the bedroom where Sammy and Saul lay on the bed, Saul asleep, Sammy awake because the heat won't let her rest. The first time I try to make her swallow some medicine, she throws it back up, all over me. I hardly grimace as I make her try again. She keeps it down this time, and I sit by her for hours, using a Chinese take-out menu to fan her face.

Around noon, she falls asleep, and I wake up Saul to watch her. I search the house again, this time to find any food and water. I find a dozen water bottles, a package of granola bars, a bag of assorted freeze-dried fruit, a few cans of vegetables and pasta, and a few packages of Ramen. I haul all of it into the bedroom, Saul and I eating and drinking sparingly.

Sammy wakes up just minutes later, begging for water. I give her some, and she falls back to sleep.

I feel wired, ready for action. What we've been through and what we've seen swims in my mind, making me question our future. Were the two groups I saw the only ones left? And if there were any more, were they good? Bad? Well supplied? Starving?

I sit up against the wall, my head tucked between my knees, hands wrapped tight around my knife. I just want to exude energy, get my anger out by other mean than crying.

I'm done with crying. I'm done with crying. I'm done with crying. I'm done with-

A noise catches my ear and I jump up, ready for whatever. I forget my gun, a stupid move, I know.

I loudly stomp through the house and throw the front door open, my heavy boots slamming against the wooden porch. Down the stairs and to the left, ambling into the small, unkept flower bed, are four of the undead. My fury doesn't allow me to see who they were once, only that I can punish them for what they've caused. These creatures... they've brought out the worst in people. People who could've been stopped, could've been locked up.

I grip the hilt so tightly that my knuckles lose all color. I slam my fists into chests, my boots into kneecaps, the sound of shattering bones and rotting muscles being pulled apart drown out the furious pounding of my heart.

I'm so mad. So fucking mad.

Why had this happened to us? To me?

I fucking hate this.

I'm done with killing them before I know it; panting, covered in blood and bits of flesh. Tears do not course down my face, but blood spills down my cheeks. The afternoon sun pours down on me and I feel no warmth.

The ones I've killed is not enough. I need more.

Why did they do the things they do? Those men did nothing to hurt them, to endanger them. They killed them. _Killed them._

I'm sprinting down the street, running into more of the undead, a constant cycle of plunging my knife in, pulling it back out, meeting the next body, aiming for their head, repeat.

Ticking. A constant cycle of seconds and minutes, each moment passing, slipping away.

What did they live for? Was it food? Air? Sunshine? Sex?

I fucking hate them.

I collapse in the street, my chest heaving and mind muddling through shit. I can't think straight.

My free hand mindlessly reaches up to my neck and brushes my fingers against the tiny mound that pokes through my shirt, the small ring of silver that is strung with it. I close my eyes and count each beat of my heart.

Each pulse sends a flash of red to swallow up the black underneath my eyelids, like an ocean wave of blood. My head thrums with pain, but I don't pay attention or really care.

What did I live for?

The heat was probably getting to me, I realized, but that hardly mattered. The knife in my hands almost slips to the ground, but the sound of moaning sends me swirling into the air, bringing down my blade into a skull. And another. And five more. Then ten more.

I stop at twenty one. That's when I turn back and head the way I came, following the bodies that had fallen in my wake. Oddly enough, I feel like Hansel and Gretel with their breadcrumb trail, leading me back home. I follow them to the house, stepping on wildflowers, leaving my bloody footprints. My war path.

I don't bother to wipe my boots clean of all the blood soaking in them, I let the carpet continue to tell my story, my red marks.

Tucking my knife back into my boot, I run my fingers over my cheek, drawing them back to stare the scarlet stains on them. I grimace at my loss of control, wiping the liquid away on my jeans. I walk down the hallway to the bedroom Sammy and Saul were, and our supplies. I turn into the room, met by a horrifying sight.

I release my cry and run straight into the unknown figure, the one stood over the form of my children. I slam them into the floor, my fingers wrapping around their throat. Somehow they slip away from me, struggling back up, the muffled _Shng!_ of a blade leaving its scabbard. I fling myself at the intruder, my vision cloaked in red, everything red. The hilt of a blade cut through the air towards my nose, I raise my forearm in time to receive the blow, wincing from the dull pain. Even though I blocked it, I'm met with a ferocious punch to the jaw, sending me sailing back and stars to cloak my eyes. Another punch landed square on my mouth, a ripping sensation coming from my bottom lip. The taste of blood seeped onto my tongue. I don't know if it'll hit them, but I throw a punch anyway. We both land against the wall, the intruder on top of me. They wrap their hands around my neck and lift- _what are they doing?_ - and push back down, the back of my skull bashing into the painted drywall. Their breath is hot on my face and finally another sound breaks through; screaming.

My children. They're the ones screaming.

_I'm sorry. I've failed you. _

So this is how I die. My skull crushed and my brain matter splattering the wall, my clothes torn and absolutely disgusting, my skin covered in dirt and blood, my children waiting to be slaughtered too.

_So this is the end. __At least my brain will be damaged enough so I won't come back._

The intruder continues to slam my head into the wall, the sound of cracking and splintering echoing throughout the room. Bright lights varying in color explode beneath my eyelids, looking like fireworks. I wonder if it's July right now. We've probably already missed Independence Day. Maybe it is, today, and Jason's somewhere, waiting for me, at his charcoal grill, preparing our family picnic. American flags on our plates, our napkins, we'll eat and watch fireworks.

_I just hope Jason doesn't burn the porch with his grill again_, is the last thought that crosses my mind before I drown into eternal black.

* * *

And I resurface in the laundromat.

"Seriously, guys... what happened?"

I notice that my voice is raspy, my throat parched. I swallow deeply, trying to cut through the arid, sticky sensation in my chest.

Sammy is first to speak. "That woman thought you were a Muncher. After she knocked you out, she drug you here and told us we'd wait to see if you'd turn. She beat you up pretty bad, mom. I thought you're going to die."

My brow knits together as I scan the room again. "What woman?"

Saul points to the shadowed wall furthest from us. "That woman."

I take a step closer and suddenly it comes rushing back - seeing an unknown figure talking to my kids as I entered the house, a film of red covering my eyes, unspeakable rage, the flash of a silver blade. I can't recall who attacked first. I had nothing to protect myself, and no words came from my mouth. I blocked the hilt of the sword from crushing my nose, their fist connected with my jaw. A tear in my lip, blood. I throw a punch. Their eyes were slitted and dark, they reminded me of a snake's. My children begged us to stop, and I managed to hurl the sword from her hands. Their hands wrapped around my throat, my skull being bashed into the drywall. Darkness.

_Oh..._

"You put up a good fight," A voice says, a small laugh accompanying it. In the shadows, a figure moves. A woman's face surfaces, the left cheek swollen, a sign that my punch found its mark.

A silent moment passes and I consider putting up another fight either to scare her off or kill her. But seeing that she wasn't a threat now, and Sammy's fever has broke, meaning she took care of her while I was out, I offer up a smile. "Thanks."

"Leela, you should tell her what you told us," Sammy chimes, jumping down from the table.

Another chuckle comes from the mysterious woman. "The teabags? Oh, yeah..." She stands, and I remark that she's imperially slim and tall, and oddly enough, both beautiful and menacing.

She has long ashy blonde hair and a pale orange piece of fabric wrapping around her forehead, her skin the color of toffee, free from any flaw. The sly grin on her face reveals bright white teeth, and I know moving those swollen muscles to smile hurts like a bitch. Blood covers her clothes, like mine, but it's almost like her's is a fashion statement. Tough-looking leather pants are bound to her fit legs, a maroon vest thrown over a sleeveless and neck-less sweater. Her knee-high boots are dark and worn out, and I spy a few fingernails embedding them. I wonder how I managed to hold my own against her.

She walks forward to Sammy and grabs the box of teabags that lies on the table.

"I told your kids that if they wanted something tasty, stick some teabags in your mouth. Silly, I know, but pretty potent, if I say so myself."

She casually throws me a packet of tea, the package saying it was Orange Green Tea. I raise an eyebrow, still dazed, but glancing back up at my children's expecting eyes, humor them for a moment. I plop the bag full of herbs into my mouth, as instructed, and let the little saliva I had on my tongue seep into it. Suddenly, the flavor bursts in behind my lips, moisture leaking back into my dry mouth. I smile at the odd trick.

"Weird," Is all I comment.

Leela smiles and turns from me to look at my kids.

"You have lovely children, Mrs. Riley," She says quietly, smirk still on her thin lips. "They were understanding of my... um... loss of control when I thought you were..."

"A walking corpse?"

"Yeah."

"It's okay, really. I look awful," I laugh, gesturing to my tattered clothing.

Leela says nothing, retreating for a moment and coming back with a shoe in hand. My boot. I sigh and take it from her, thanking her. I find my knife in there, then I stuff my foot back in, not bothering to tie the laces right now.

Leela eyes me quickly, her broad smile fading. "It looks like you've been through a lot," She says. She throws her gaze behind her again. "All of you. Your kids told me about your husband. I'm... really sorry."

I swallow past the rock in my throat at the mention of him. I really need to get over that.

"It's been hard. But we're here now. And that's all that really matters."

Leela nods in understanding. "I'm sure everyone that's alive now has been through a lot," She pauses. "I guess I'm lucky."

I cock my head to the side in wonder. "You didn't lose anybody?"

Leela shook her head, her long hair rippling like water. She gives a half-smile. "I just lost my cat, Opal. Not much of a loss, I know. That's why I'm thankful, could've been me."

"Were you alone before?"

"Yeah. Left home as a kid. Traveled for a bit, hitchhiking around. In Atlanta, I settled down, I did odd jobs, hardly scraped by on the rent of my shit hole of an-" She immediately places her hand over her mouth, an apologetic glint in her eyes. "Sorry."

I wave it off. "Nothing they haven't heard before."

I glance back to the window, the still-alive Muncher that was practically limbless and tied up making little movement. It hardly reacted to being feet away from my children. That put me on edge a bit.

"What is that?"

Leela looks back to the Muncher, a nervous look to her form. "I was in a group a few weeks ago. Met a woman that kept two corpses on a leash, arms removed and jaws ripped out. She claimed that it kept nearby corpses at bay, covered her scent. Didn't believe her until I saw her high-tailing it out of the camp, literally swarmed by corpses. But they didn't notice her. So, after I got out, I found this guy. Cut off his arms, tore his jaw off. No arms to catch you, no teeth to bit you. It's genius." Leela stops again. "It's harmless, really. I know it's odd at first, but I swear, it won't hurt your kids."

"No, I wasn't worried," I half-lie, offering up a shaky grin.

I opt to change the subject, so I motion to her sword. "How long have you trained with that?"

Leela flawlessly pulls out her glimmering sword, a long silver blade catching in the sun, the hilt bound in crimson cloth. I forget the name of this certain type of sword, all I remember is that it was used in Kill Bill a lot. She balances the weapon in her hands, letting my eyes pore over it. The kids gather around the same. The sword-wielding woman throws a welcoming look, not a warning one, to my children.

Leela, although I hardly know her, looks familiar in an odd way. I guess I can see myself in her. Trusting the kids with important decisions, knowing that we couldn't keep them from weapons like these, because one day, they may have to defend themselves with them.

"I've trained since I was your age, Saul,"She says, her dark eyes on him. She smiles warmly. "My parents encouraged me, thought it felt like they were forcing it. I trained until I was fourteen, then I ran away. I forgot about it until all this started happening."

I step closer and very slowly, run my index finger over the middle of the blade. Leela doesn't even flinch.

"It's a katana. Went to a pawn shop the first night of the end. The owner was a good friend of mine, and he... gave it to me before he died. He was a good man."

I suddenly decide that I want her around. Leela was trustworthy, with good morals and had some useful skills underneath her belt. She obviously cared for my children, and oddly enough, I just wanted to make sure _she _was going to be fine.

"Leela..." I start, really unsure of what to say. "My kids and I, we have no idea where to go. I was just wondering, where are you heading?"

Leela blows out her cheeks and sighs. "I was heading to Atlanta, but your kids told me what went down there. So...I haven't got a clue."

Another shared characteristic.

I look at her, my gaze serious. "Leela, would you like to travel with us? Other than being a great fighter, you're great with my kids. I... really need some help right now. It's tough out there, no matter what. And I think our safest bet is to stay together."

Leela looks at me with a cold gaze for a moment. Then, she glances to my kids, who are completely silent. I hope she doesn't feel an obligation to travel with us just because of my children, but while I hope that, I actually think that's why she nods.

"Yeah. That's a good idea."

I exhale deeply and give my biggest grin. "Thank you."

Sammy and Saul exchange excited glances and suddenly throw themselves at Leela, wrapping their arms around her slim waist. Leela, slightly surprised, somehow manages to keep her katana balanced in her hands as she gently places one hand on Sammy's head.

"I'll keep you all safe," Leela says quietly. "I'll protect all of you."

"...Promise?"


End file.
